


Gladiator

by rainbowshoes



Series: Tony Stark Bingo 2019 [5]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gladiators, Ancient Rome, Blood and Gore, Blood and Violence, Canonical Character Death, Decapitation, Gen, Post-Betrayal, Pre-Slash, Slavery, Swordfighting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-09
Updated: 2019-03-09
Packaged: 2019-11-14 11:20:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18051548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainbowshoes/pseuds/rainbowshoes
Summary: A Gladiator-style alternate universe:“Remove your helmet,” Anthony orders.James hesitates for a moment. He was arrested for Rumlow's lie that he'd murdered the emperor's parents. He hadn't, of course, but that didn't seem to matter much. Rumlow was close to the Praetor, and he'd said James did it, so James had been arrested. He'd expected to be executed, but then Rumlow had fucking sold him into slavery instead.He's only glad he wasn't executed now, because it gave him the chance to get his revenge.For the Tony Stark Bingo 2019A4: Ancient Civilization AUT4: Slave fic





	1. A4: Ancient Civilization AU

The helmet sits heavy and awkward on his head. It's too big, unyielding. It won't protect him as well as his orderly believes it should. He doesn't take it off. He can't. 

The bastard before him waves his arms like a lunatic, gathering the crowd's attention, basking in the cheers and jeers alike. James doesn't move other than to flex his hand around the grip of his sword. The sun is brutal today, and sweat drips down the back of his neck. He watches through narrowed eyes as Rumlow laughs at taunts geared toward James and eggs the crowd to say more. 

The emperor, Anthony, doesn't react at all. He looks bored. James doesn't care. 

He hates that he's here, that he has no other choice. He might not be willing to take the coward's way to death, and he might have sworn, more than a year ago, to kill Rumlow with his own two hands, but this is not how he wanted it to happen. He doesn't enjoy fighting in front of all these people. He doesn't enjoy the cheers or even the rewards that come from winning so many fights. These mock battles are just that - a mockery. He has been to war. He has slain men in Rome's name. In whose name does he kill these slaves forced to fight? Not Rome's. 

But it doesn't matter. Not the name, not the faux glory. Not the distant and unwinnable promise of freedom. No. Only Rumlow's death matters today, and James will have it. 

When the Game Master signals for the match to begin, James doesn't wait for Rumlow to take notice. He doesn't wait for the eruption from the crowd. He doesn't wait, like a good  _ sport _ , for Rumlow to face him like a man and ready himself. Rumlow is not a man. He is little more than a common beast with the ability to speak. James has seen exotic birds with the same ability and more intelligence.

James runs across the big, empty arena. The crowd ignites with screams of fervor. Rumlow turns, at perhaps the last possible moment. He manages to bring his sword up in time to block James’ blow. James takes it as only a small mercy that Rumlow doesn't know who he's facing. The Winter Soldier is the moniker the crowds have given him, for his stoic and silent nature. ‘Winning the crowd’ was easy enough when he killed as mercilessly as he did. They wanted bloodshed, and he gave it to them. 

Rumlow swipes his sword to the side, a low swing meant to take out James’ knee. He blocks and swings high, clanging the sword against the shield Rumlow barely raised in time to protect his neck. He doesn't stop, doesn't slow. He aims another blow for Rumlow's opposite side with his second sword, toward his middle. Rumlow barely blocks it, falling back step after step. Part of James’ charm as The Winter Soldier was his use of two swords and no shield. He didn't need one, not against these opponents, not when he's fought so many opponents in real wars. 

Rumlow says something - James isn't listening to his words or to the crowd - and then he stabs straight out, leaving himself open and vulnerable. James takes advantage of the opportunity, knocks Rumlow's blade-tip to the side and steps in close. He cuts a shallow line along Rumlow's thigh, enough to hurt, enough to bleed, but not enough to disable. He spins away just as Rumlow tries to use the shield to bash the side of his head. Rumlow staggers to the side a few steps, swearing and panting.

There is a brief moment of pause between them. Rumlow smiles, a horrible, nasty thing, and James can't quite stop his flinch. Rumlow laughs, low and dark. James throws himself back into the mock battle. This needs to end - now. 

He distracts Rumlow with a blow aimed high at his head again, then aims his other sword for the same side, the opposite side as Rumlow's shield, and cuts, deeper this time, into the soft flesh at Rumlow's belly. It isn't quite enough to eviscerate, not yet. Rumlow screams profanities and curses at James, swings his blade wildly at his head and shoulders. James deflects the blows easily enough, pushing in on Rumlow to force him back again and again. 

The crowd is screaming, the sound muffled in the back of James’ mind, far and away from his true focus. He stabs his sword deep into Rumlow's shoulder, the one holding the shield. He doesn't smile, doesn't scream his own victory, doesn't do any of those things most champions do. Rumlow laughs as his shield falls heavily to the ground beside them.

“Thought that was you,” Rumlow says, voice rasping through his harsh breaths. “You were always such a nice treat.” He grunts in pain as James drives the sword even deeper into his shoulder, nearly enough to sever his arm from his body. He shakes his head a little, then his wide, mad grin returns. “I won't let you go without me.” 

James sees the blade swing up toward his arm. He leaves his sword in Rumlow's shoulder and spins, blocking the blow with his other blade. It still bites deep into his arm, but not enough to hack the limb away, not enough to kill, not enough to do more than cause a minor annoyance, in the long run. His eyes are wide as James slides his blade down the length of Rumlow's and twists sharply to force it free from Rumlow's hand. Rumlow falls to his knees in the dirt before James, and James drops his sword. He grips the blade in Rumlow's shoulder instead. 

The crowd is screaming around him. They're so loud. Painfully so. James ignores them. He keeps his eyes locked with Rumlow's.

“Your betrayal cost me my life, and you yours,” James says roughly. Rumlow laughs. James snatches the blade from Rumlow's shoulder viciously, severing Rumlow's arm. He then shifts, plants his feet, and swings. Rumlow's head falls to the dirt and rolls off to the side. The crowd's screams are even louder, now. 

James drops his blade and turns slowly to face the emperor. He's standing, his face unreadable. 

“Remove your helmet,” Anthony orders.

James hesitates for a moment. He was arrested for Rumlow's lie that he'd murdered the emperor's parents. He hadn't, of course, but that didn't seem to matter much. Rumlow was close to the Praetor, and he'd said James did it, so James had been arrested. He'd expected to be executed, but then Rumlow had fucking sold him into slavery instead. 

He's only glad he wasn't executed now, because it gave him the chance to get his revenge. 

He slowly lifts his arms, his left aches and burns from the deep cut, and he tugs the helmet off slowly. The crowd, already in an uproar, screams even louder when they finally see his face. Back when James had been a general, he'd been fairly well-known, and well-respected if not well-loved. The emperor's expression shutters into a closed-off, blank expression. He turns and says something to the pretty red-headed woman beside him. She nods and steps down from the dias to address the new Praetor. 

The former Praetor, Stane, had been executed some months ago. Betrayal, apparently. He'd tried to have the emperor assassinated, and when that failed, the emperor killed Stane himself in front of a crowd of thousands. The emperor's odd hobby of smithing was well-known, but James was surprised that the smithy-turned-emperor knew how to  _ use _ his weapons as well. The rumors has spread like wildfire through the barracks where the gladiator slaves slept. The emperor had heaved a gigantic two-handed sword high over his head and cleaved Stane’s head clear off his shoulders. James isn't sure he should believe such a rumor. The emperor looks thin and small from so far away and decked in robes.

The emperor turns back toward James. He lifts his hand in the air. James waits, detached, almost disinterested. What does he care if he lives or dies?

Anthony points his thumb down toward the earth.

James will not die today.

James is ushered away, at long last. He's grateful to be out of the sun and away from the screaming crowds. He has finished what he set out to do. He won't fight again.


	2. T4: Slave fic

His orderly drags him to a small chamber and strips away the leather armor. He bathes the sweat from James’ body and spends long, careful minutes cleaning and stitching the cut on his arm. James doesn't say a word or move at all unless asked or instructed. He is a statue, unfeeling. Cold. The orderly, nameless to James as they change them so often around him, finally leaves him with a clean robe and exits the chamber. James dresses slowly. He aches. The exhaustion runs bone-deep. 

He expects the orderly or his  _ master  _ to return and take him back to the barracks. That doesn't happen. His orderly does return, but with food and wine, and then he's gone again. James eats because he is expected to eat, and because he doesn't know when his next meal will come. Perhaps his  _ master  _ is having a hard time collecting all his winnings from those that bet against him. James doesn't bother to question it. He doesn't leave the chamber. He doesn't have anywhere else to go.

The sun is setting by the time James hears someone at the door again. He stands slowly, his body still tired and aching. He hasn't slept. 

He very carefully does not let his surprise show on his face when the door opens to reveal none other than the emperor himself. He doesn't bow. Doesn't kneel. He's a slave. If that sort of thing were expected, he'd be told to do so. The Praetor follows behind: a tall, imposing black man who once fought in a war alongside James, and he shuts the door behind them. 

“I don't suppose a slave deserves a public execution,” James says, allowing a small smirk and nothing more. He nods. “I won't fight.”

“I didn't think you would,” Anthony says calmly. His big brown eyes study James carefully. “But I'm not here to execute you. And neither is  _ this _ James.” He waves lazily at his Praetor. “We have a few questions, actually.” 

James nods his head in easy acceptance. They might not be prepared to kill him now, but they will eventually or he will die in the next tournament. Either way, his life is nearly over. He is… very tired. He's ready for this to be over. His entire life has been focused around fighting and  _ war _ . His best friend died right beside him in the last war, and he has been waiting for his time to go ever since. Surely the gods do not expect two brothers, such as they were, to be separated for long?

“You were accused of murdering the previous emperor and his queen,” the Praetor says, almost conversationally. James only nods. “Any truth to that accusation?”

“Not that I expect you to believe me,” James says, his tone reflecting his mood - tired and ready to leave this earth. “But, no. I didn't.”

“Do you know who did?” Anthony asks, wandering around the chamber on near-silent feet and pausing by the tiny window. He looks over at James to watch him for his response. 

“Yes,” James says simply. Anthony shoots his Praetor a strange look, one James can't interpret. James gestures back at the bench along the wall, asking for silent permission, and Anthony nods and waves him off. James takes a few heavy steps back and sinks to the bench tiredly. “My master, one of your senators. Pierce.”  Anthony sucks in a sharp breath and shoots his Praetor a narrow-eyed look. “He sent the order. I don’t know who held the blade. Likely Rumlow, if his damned bragging was any indication.” James allows his lips to pull into a grimace at the annoyance Rumlow always presented. 

“Right,” the Praetor says with a sharp nod. He leaves immediately. James wonders why anyone would leave him alone with the emperor. He was supposed to have killed the last one. He could have been lying. 

Anthony grabs the pitcher of wine and fills James’ cup. He takes a long drink, draining it, then refills it and carries it over to James. James accepts it out of shock more than anything. He’s never been served by the damn emperor. Anthony turns his back to James - another stupidly dangerous a foolhardy move - and paces around the small, box-like chamber. 

“Pierce set a ridiculously high price for your head, you know,” Anthony says conversationally. 

“Twenty thousand drachmas,” James says. He memorized that number a long, long time ago. 

Anthony laughs. “Oh, no. Perhaps that’s how much he paid for you when he bought you, but that’s not what you’re worth now.” He glances at James, and James quirks an eyebrow. “Seventy-five thousand drachmas. An insane sum, even for the likes of me.” James pales. Some slaves, he’d heard, managed to work off their debt to free themselves. He’d thought, once, that surely he’d managed to reach somewhere near the sum of twenty thousand drachmas after all the tournaments he’d won and all the money Pierce had collected from bets. Only a small portion of that would ever go toward James’ owed sum, but he’d hoped…

He’d already given up, but hearing that sum feels like the last blade thrust in his back. He closes his eyes and forces himself to take a deep, steadying breath. He will die a slave. No proper funeral rites, no burial, nothing. His body will be burned with the garbage, like so much garbage himself. 

And that, more than anything, perhaps, aches. He will never see Steve again, not in the afterlife or in their next life. They will be forever separated. A small part of him wants to rage and scream and curse and continue fighting until he cannot possibly fight any longer, just for the  _ chance _ to buy back his freedom. But he won’t. 

“- already paid it.” 

Anthony’s words shake James out of his stupor. His eyes flash open, and they focus on the young emperor. He’s still standing by the tiny window, the evening sun casting luminous orange light over his olive skin. He has an impish look about him, standing like that. He doesn’t really look like an emperor, though James doesn’t have the right words for what he  _ does _ look like. 

“What?” James rasps.

“Your sum,” Anthony repeats. “I’ve already paid it.” He takes a step closer, and his face falls into shadow. He looks older, now. Wiser, somehow, and almost anguished. “I know the look of a man who has decided he will no longer fight.” His words are soft, gentle, and yet they strike hard at James’ heart. “You’ll come to my villa tonight.”

James sneers. “I’m to be some common slave?” He turns his head away from Anthony. “Sell be to the next highest bidder and let me die a warrior in combat. It is a nobler death.”

“It’s a shit death,” Anthony snorts. James doesn’t respond. “Manumission.” James tenses at the word. “That’s what you were working toward, right?” He nods once, very carefully. “Many of my slaves buy their freedom for themselves. I’ve only held power for about a year, but I’ve already had six freed, formally, by the magistrate. One was very old, one was very young, one was a heavily pregnant woman, and her child will be born a free man rather than yet another slave. One of my best cooks bought his freedom, and then promptly asked if I’d like to hire him. I accepted, of course.” Anthony laughs, very slightly. 

“I will not live long enough to pay back seventy-five thousand drachmas,” James says, his voice just on the edge of brittle and angry. It’s a desperate fight to keep his composure. 

Anthony plucks up an olive from James’ abandoned plate and twirls it between his fingers. “You might,” he says softly. “Faster than you think, too.” He pops the olive in his mouth. “Either way, you don’t have much say in the matter now. I’ve already bought you.”

James clenches his hands tight by his side, but he doesn’t dare argue. He knew full well how the previous emperor treated his slaves. He doesn’t know Anthony, doesn’t know how Anthony might treat his slaves, but he won’t take the risk - not while he’s injured and exhausted. And he wants at least the  _ chance  _ of manumission if he won’t get the chance to die in battle. Anthony gestures for him to stand, so James rises. Anthony turns to leave, so James follows. 


End file.
